


Savour

by peregrineroad



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Gen, kid peter & yondad go on a day trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peregrineroad/pseuds/peregrineroad
Summary: “Is it an in and out?” Peter asked. Yondu completed the checks and then gave him a long, measured look.“Nah,” he said. “You’re about due for some cultural education.”





	Savour

Peter sat in the mess hall, eyeing his portion of Stigulian stew with hatred and venom and what he hoped was steely authority. His ritual was to glare it into submission before he put it in his mouth. It hadn’t ever bit back yet, but every fresh plateful threatened to be the first.

For as long as he’d been on-board the Eclector, its cooking-galley had specialised in foods which landed somewhere between satisfying and nauseating, but Stigulian stew was probably the very strangest. No other meal was quite as ugly, for one thing – it was lumpy and dark like half-dry tar, with an oily sheen of yellows, browns and greens on top. The taste, though…that was weird in another way. It was the kind of food mostly made of leftovers with a few mysterious distinguishing ingredients, and sometimes the result didn’t appeal much to Peter. But the smell and savour of it took him somewhere, every time, like catching a trace of salt on the air as you approached the sea. It was warm and filling and he ate it with his eyes closed for more than one reason, and it always seemed to show up on the menu just after he’d done something to please Yondu.

He chewed slowly. This time was good. Mild spices over something creamy rich and almost sweet, with a warm tang in the aftertaste. It tasted like it had been made in someone’s home, with all the windows open and a light breeze spinning the scent of it around. It tasted like it had been made with love, like his grandma used to say.

It hadn’t, of course. Argniles the cook was among the meanest of the whole pack, and he didn’t seem to love anything but his big knives. He carried them everywhere and probably used them on people as well as ingredients. Peter had had nightmares about  _ending up_  in the Stigulian stew.

But not today, because today Yondu was pleased with him, and so were most of the others. He had a bruise on one shoulder from all the approving punches he hadn’t been able to dodge. Yondu didn’t much like the crew smacking Peter around. He reserved the discipline and random antagonising of the under-twelves for himself.  _Terran’s breakable,_  he’d say,  _and he still got plenty of thieving left in him_.  _Besides, he’s crew_. Translation: If some jackass left Peter unusable after all the time Yondu’d spent training him, said jackass was going out the airlock with his own burning liver shoved down his gullet. But Ravagers were rough even in celebration. Peter rubbed his shoulder. He guessed yesterday he’d proved the old bastard right; he  _was_ useful.

“Hurry it up, boy,” Yondu said from over his head. Peter jumped and dropped his spoon, eyes flying open. Speak of the frickin’ devil. “Got something to show you after.”

But that could mean  _anything._ He raised his next spoonful gingerly to his lips and chewed as slowly as he could without seeming provoking. Yondu glared sideways down at him anyway.

“Quit quivering, it ain’t anything bad,” he said, and scuffed Peter’s hair into a tangle until Peter shook his hand away. “You ain’t this nervous when it comes to skimping on chores or running off when I told you to stay.”

Peter sighed and resigned himself to missing his single day’s grace with the rest of the crew. Sometimes expeditions with Yondu were fun. Sometimes they were a new tier of training, and he got his ass kicked.  “I’m not  _nervous_ ,” he said. “I’m chewing my food like a regular civilised person, is all.”

Yondu raised an eyebrow. “Oh, civilised? You seen the state of your room, boy?”

Peter filled his mouth in lieu of replying, but he thought he did it with a pretty respectable glower. Yondu looked at him, shook his head, and then chuckled. He sounded really amused, and Peter couldn’t stop his eyes from lifting to his face and scanning it for traces of warmth. He knew better, he did; Yondu was an asshole kidnapper and Peter didn’t need his approval, and it only ever came because of his skinny-brat thieving utility anyway, but he just…couldn’t help it. The laugh only lasted a few moments.

“You come to the shuttles when you’re done,” Yondu said. “No dawdling.”

A final press on the top of Peter’s head, too rough to be a pat, and he was gone.

Peter swallowed.

He got thumped a few more times on his way to the shuttles, but he hardly noticed. He was plotting what he was going to say to Yondu to take advantage of this momentary parting of the clouds. The first time something like this had happened, only about four months after his arrival, he’d been able to negotiate for more personal space; better food; easier chores. It had been the first time Yondu had called him crew, too, saying it with an odd twist of his mouth which had looked almost like triumph, and the ship at large had rumbled its approval.

Ever since it had been traditional for Peter to store up his bids for improvement for times like these, and for Yondu to listen, if not oblige. Today, what he mainly had were questions - much more dangerous than a request for a locked chest to keep his belongings in, or the privilege of officially naming his own ship.

Yondu was waiting outside the shuttle bay with his arms folded and a neutral expression. He nodded at Peter, who couldn’t help shifting to a trot until he was in front of the Captain.

“C’mon, then,” Yondu said, and led the way towards his M-Ship without explaining. Peter didn’t ask anything yet. He wanted to stick to the things he really wanted to know.

When Yondu brought up the navigation chart, he selected Stigul as their destination. Peter’s eyes widened. The only thing he knew about the planet, outside of Argniles’ culinary efforts, was its reputation for fancy parties.

“Don’t get excited,” Yondu said without looking at him. “We’re goin’ on business.”

Peter bounced once in his seat. The edges of Yondu’s unconcerned scowl twitched.

“One of these days,” he said, and shook his head. Peter waited to hear ‘I’m gonna let the crew eat you for being so fuckin’ annoying’, but Yondu got down to piloting instead. Peter huffed anyway. He wasn’t allowed to touch the controls, even though he was really good in the Milano and Yondu’s stupid ship wasn’t that different; only more boring and slightly more bloodstained.

He folded his arms and stared out the window port ahead, watching the stars trail across the sky. On an M-ship, away from the raucousness of the Eclector, the quiet and the flickering lights of the controls made him feel peaceful like nothing else ever did. He still loved space, even after everything. Sometimes he thought it was the last thing he did love.

Yondu seemed to like the quiet too. At least, when it was just the two of them flying, he rarely broke it. He barely seemed to notice Peter at all, in fact.

“I did good on the last job, right?” Peter said, into the almost-companionable silence. Yondu grunted. “So, I had a question.” Another grunt. Peter hesitated.

“Spit it out, boy.”

“Okay, so Horuz was saying that…there’s a boss of the Ravagers. Like, a bigger boss, even for you. Is that true?”

He was watching Yondu’s reflection in the view port. He saw the heavy blankness come on; the look he’d never learned to interpret, and which always arrived whenever he needed to read the captain most. It was replaced with a slight sneer, then Yondu swung his chair to face him, head cocked, smiling.

“There’s a guy who got some factions together n’ made himself their leader,” he said, airily. “But we ain’t one of those factions, and he ain’t my boss.”

“Oh.”

“That it?”

“Horuz said he was.”

“Horuz was talking shit.” Yondu scowled at him. “Don’t let me catch you listening to him ‘bout anythin’ else, Quill. How’re you ever gonna learn your Warp-Pump Switches from your Omni-Navis if you’re occupyin’ yourself with Horuz’s version of the universe?”

“I know them both already!” Peter said.

“And who taught you?”

“You did….” He unfolded his arms and leaned forward. “So this guy has a bigger crew? Does he have lots of ships?”

Yondu leaned back, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Why you even wanna know?”

“’Coz I just proved I’m an  _awesome_  Ravager with the last job, and if I’m gonna keep rising up the ranks I wanna be aiming for the top.”

For a moment, Yondu just stared at him. He looked actually, completely taken off guard; eyebrows up and mouth slightly open. Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Peter felt an odd mixture of satisfied and deflated. “Seriously.”

“You got the nerve of ten men, Quill, I’ll allow ya that.” Yondu shook his head. “Them other crews wouldn’t take ya. You best stay here and work on bein’ Captain of your footlocker.”

“I’ll be so good they’ll have to take me. You’ll see.” He raised an imaginary blaster. “Starlord: legendary outlaw!”

“One, you got a real gun there on your belt,” Yondu said. “Two, if you fire anything inside my ship, fake or not, I’m gonna feed you to  _yourself,_ feet first, and let the crew go hungry. Damnit, boy.”

Peter sighed and holstered his imagination. Was a ‘damnit, Starlord’ really too much to ask for?

“Hitting the jump point,” Yondu added. He always warned for jumps a moment too late for Peter to brace himself, because he was a big blue jerk who found it entertaining when Peter squeaked.

“Gahhh!” It was like being on a roller coaster and suddenly dropping, but also like being the product of someone else’s brain throwing up. Yondu snickered. “You a-hole!”

“Captain A-hole to you.” The planet was in sight now, a vast, marbled sphere of red and purple. They entered orbit with a shuddering jerk and Peter hopped out of his seat to approach the view-port, watching as they passed through a thick layer of cloud and the world below them started evolving into distinct shapes. Snow-topped mountains spiralled down into long, thin valleys full of green and golden shadows, and the vast forested regions were white and blazing in the sunlight. The cities were golden, too; square-built and orderly, glowing with electric light even in the daytime. As the M-ship swooped in to land, Peter saw that there were hundreds of other ships already there, and the roads were thronged with people and lined with banners. They were arriving at a festival.

“Whoa,” he said, and pressed his nose against the view port. Yondu clicked his tongue.

“Sit the hell down, Quill.” The ship lurched a little. Peter shifted back from the window, but didn’t go back to his chair. Yondu was doing landing checks and didn’t bother to repeat himself.

“Is it an in and out?” Peter asked. Yondu completed the checks and then gave him a long, measured look.

“Nah,” he said. “You’re about due for some cultural education.”

Peter felt a stab of excitement which was only sharpened by an echo of apprehension. For Ravagers, ‘cultural education’ often meant ‘find this group’s weak spot (by shooting at it)’. Peter was pretty sure they thought chasing him around, stealing his walkman and threatening to eat him were also all very educational.

On the other hand, Yondu sometimes taught him normal things. Normal-ish, at least. Things Peter learned by sitting at his elbow and listening. He’d make Peter do math; calculating percentages of a take or figuring out how many supplies they would need to get between certain planets, and, though he didn’t let Peter see anyone else’s wages, he’d shown him how his own would accumulate until he had a buffer. He’d even let Peter estimate how long it would be until he could buy the Milano out of the fleet. Peter wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a taunt or encouragement, but he’d stored the possibility away in his heart anyway. The best Ravagers owned their own ships.

He got history sometimes too: which sectors were caught up in the Kree-Xandarian war; alliances and how they’d changed over the years; which ancient artefacts were valuable and which were glorified doorstops. It was almost fun, if much more focused on immediate personal gain and/or not being murdered than school had ever been. Mom would feel…

He didn’t know how she’d feel, except that she’d like the times he learned about space itself: stars, solar systems, asteroids. How not to get lost in the emptiness between worlds, which was where he lived now, and where he kept her memory.

Yondu stood up and fixed a hand to the back of his collar. Peter grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t try to escape. That was how all their expeditions started. Eventually Yondu would relax a little and allow him to wander.

He stumbled as they left the ship, Yondu hauling him upright without pausing. The planet’s three suns threw up a blinding glare from the yellow stone of the city and the heat and light both seemed to burn on his face, but ahead of them all was the scent which filled him up on his first breath, catching on the back of his throat and driving a sharp pang of hunger into his belly.

Something savoury was cooking on the other side of the street, frying in a fury of spitting oil, flavouring the air with a smoky, nutty weight that drew him forward involuntarily. The next breeze carried a blooming of earthy spices which almost stung in his mouth until the buttery aftertaste landed, then motes of floral lightness, then the sweetness of fresh fruit spilling juice onto open fire; each scent graduating into the next naturally, provoking a wild kind of urgency in him as he followed his nose onward in pursuit of delicious adventure.

Yondu’s hand on his collar jerked him back to reality.

“Boy.” The amusement had returned. “Try keepin’ it together for once.”

“Hey, I…” Peter faltered. “I just appreciate good smells when I can get them. You know, because…you guys stink.”

“Is that it?” Yondu didn’t even bother pretending to be offended. “So then. What d'you make of this?”

Peter tried to put his thievin’ eyes on. The street was crowded (lots of marks who weren’t paying attention to their valuables), buildings with multiple entry points, no security cameras he could see. A host of confused and delighted tourists shouting and recording themselves.

“Looks like a pretty good party,” he said. “But it would be better with music!”

Yondu nodded like that was the answer he’d expected. “Stigul, especially the Dogha province where we’re at, is all about enjoyment of the senses. This festival is for taste and smell. It’s a highpoint of trade and tourism, which is why you’ll see a shit-ton of merchants.” He paused, watching a robed and hooded figure undulate past them in a haze of perfume, tossing small bursts of scented powder in the air. “I got a contact who wants to move some more expensive products which aren’t supposed to go off-world. Just keep your head down ‘n don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Which sounded an awful lot like ‘act like a normal kid’ to Peter. He wasn’t sure he still had the knack for it, but he was sure it involved goggling at the things he wanted to goggle at, and trying to coax desert out of reluctant adults. He tugged on Yondu’s sleeve.

“Can I eat that?” he asked, pointing to one of the vendor’s stalls, stacked high with what looked like pastries. They smelled like vanilla and caramel.  

“Y’ just ate.”

“No, that was agggggees ago. I’m hungry!”

“What the hell,” Yondu muttered. “Maybe stuffing your face’ll shut you up for a bit.”

Peter conceded the possibility, and Yondu flicked a few coins to the vendor, who put his alien-pasty in a little paper bag and handed it to Peter with a smile. Peter grinned back, then eased it back out of the bag and nibbled gently at one of the edges. Years in space had taught him to be cautious with new foods, but this one tasted perfectly sugary and melted on his tongue like a dream. Yondu took one look at the rapturous expression on his face and rolled his eyes.

The two of them drifted through the throng over the afternoon, peering at stalls, watching the festival dancers throw their aromatic powders, gradually moving into quieter and quieter streets until at last they had left the crowd behind. Yondu’s pace picked up then, and he strode on purposefully around corners and up lanes, his hand back on Peter’s collar. Finally they ducked into a dingy, squat little building with grubby second-hand items in its window.

“You’re late,” said the merchant inside, glowering at them. “What’s that?”

Yondu raised his hand a little, straightening Peter’s spine. “Trainee. He ain’t important.”

“Starting them young, ain’t you?” the merchant said, and then shrugged. “Well, you have the cash?”

“Sure do,” Yondu said. “You got the goods ready?”

“Here.” The man set out a small, plain box on the shop counter, and gently flicked the lid off of it. Then he raised it almost reverently. “Try it out.”

Without warning, he thrust the box under Peter’s nose.

For a moment, all Peter smelled was warm dirt; the smell of days spent running outside under the sun. And then the perfume hit.

It was the perfume Mom had worn sometimes, exactly, and it lurched him back into a thousand clustered moments which he’d folded away and forgotten – for his own sake, just like he’d refused to hold her hand as she died for his own sake, because it hurt so much that the hurt seemed to throw him out of his body and leave him floating far away.

His inhalation choked against a sniffle. His face was wet.

“It’s usually old men who cry for this stuff,” the vendor said. “You Ravagers, eh?”

“Ravagers don’t cry,” Peter said, before Yondu even said anything, and dragged his sleeve over his eyes. The merchant’s expression was pitying, shifting to surprise as Yondu grabbed the box out of his hand and raised it to his own face. He sniffed once, wearing the blank expression again, blinked, and replaced the lid.

“That’s it,” he said. “Here’s the payment.”

He and the merchant set a transfer while Peter wandered to the window, staring out at the darkening sky. It looked like rain was coming. He wondered if the party would go on anyway out there. Maybe they all had giant space umbrellas.

He tried to visualise it. An array of alien umbrellas held against the sky. A million colours. But they still seemed far away.

“Boy,” Yondu called him to the door. He blinked, and followed his captain out into the evening.

After a while, but before they were in sight of the crowd again, he said, “What was that stuff?”

“Smells of your best memories,” Yondu said curtly. “There are exiled Stigulian Nobles who’ll pay through the nose for it. So to speak. They’re forbidden from returning, so they hired us to smuggle some out.”

“Oh.” Peter looked at his shoes. “Can I…look at it again?”

“Look, huh? It ain’t a toy, Quill.” Yondu cuffed him lightly on the shoulder, then made another grab for his scruff. Peter dodged to one side.

“I just want to….”

“You can’t go back, boy. It’s best you remember that.”

It was easier to forget, he knew. And if it felt like failing her, to tuck the brightest, sharpest parts of home away again and cling to his walkman like it was the only real thing left, well, he’d already failed her as badly as he ever could. But…

“What did you remember?” he asked. Yondu didn’t look at him, and didn’t answer.

Peter was gonna be the best Ravager ever. That was the future. The past was fading away, just like it was supposed to.

It started to rain just as they hit the main street again. The festival had already wound down. No umbrellas were in evidence. The smell of rain pressed on all the other smells until they were only hints, coming and going through the same breath, so that even the memories they left were flickering ghosts. Uncertain; fading. Maybe there was only the rain after all, and the old leather of Yondu’s coat as it moved stiffly in the wind, slapping against Peter’s shoulder.

“Here.” Abruptly, Yondu shoved another small paper bag under his nose. There was a second pastry in there, which Peter had no recollection of him buying.

Vanilla. Caramel.

“I don’t want it,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” Yondu said.

“I will,” Peter said.

It was musty back inside Yondu’s M-Ship. It smelled of copper and burnt wiring and dust. And vanilla and caramel and rain, too.

He closed his eyes and tried to take himself back to days under one sun, by his mother’s side. But it was impossible to reach. The present was all that was there - all those present smells, and now the faint hint of salt on the air too, as the tears started up again.

“Let’s go home,” Yondu said, sighing. And they headed up into space, and Peter slipped his headphones on, and he listened to his mother’s music as the stars streamed past.


End file.
